Editor's Note:  A bumboat is a small boat used to ferry supplies to larger boats off shore. As Mrs. Wilson relates, bumboats acted as small stores as they travelled alongside the long tows going down the Hudson River and provided goodies like ice cream. Once the long tows got underway, they didn't stop until the final destination was reached.

1987 conversation with Pearl Kilmer Wilson and family - her youth on Erie Canal and Hudson River tugboats
Pearl Kilmer Wilson:  Was on the canal (referring to her father William). He was a captain and he run these boats for the Dunbar Association in Tonawanda, he was on the canal 5 or 6 years.

Oh, yes, I went to New York. I went to school down there, but not when Daddy was on the boat but then my grandfather went down one year and he got a lovely job down there; and he was captain of New York Central Barge and we stayed right in New York. Our home port was 6th Pier, New York. The Piers where you tied were all numbered and number 6 was our home.

You know how I went to school? They come and got me every morning on a tug. The tug is the one that draws the other boats around the harbor. When you went to school the other kids in New York they called us the Boat Kids. The Boat Kids, but we went. Then, when it was time, there was a teacher walked us down to the Pier and the boat would be there waiting to take us back home.

And they have an aquarium down there where they had great big vats of fish in them. They have one there and there was one on a wall there half as big as this house, had a whale in it. Live, they're live fish in these tanks.

When they got to Cohoes, that's this side of Albany, there were 16 locks and every lock you couldn't steer your own boat thru there, you had to have an expert to take the boats thru those 16 locks. They'd go in like this and then when you come out you were on a different level. When you got to the end, you know where you was? In the Hudson River. There would be 20, 30 boats or so, all tied up waiting for the tow. 

And then the Red Star, that was one of the biggest boats there was, they even go across the ocean and they'd come and they'd tied them together themselves with a hawser, a big rope is called a hawser, and that's what they tied it together with; and that's what you went down the Hudson with. And when you got about half way down the Hudson there would be a bum boat come out, and he'd have ice cream and he'd have milk and he'd have bread and he'd have fish. Oh, I never ate so many fish, and I loved them. It was beautiful, they'd be fresh caught in a tub of ice; and everybody bought from the bum boat when they come out. They'd come out and they'd be 3 or 4 days supplying that big tall boat. 
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​And it was beautiful going down along the Hudson River in the night, you know the big Red Star, it was bigger than this house, Oh yes, two of them. It had a flashlight a revolving light, he'd do that up along the side and it's woodsy down through there, and oh was it beautiful. They had their horses in the boats too, they were in the bow in the stable and that's what they done, was eat and take care of their horses. A lot of them didn't go to bed at night, they'd sit out and see that beautiful scenery. It was just beautiful going in the tow, beautiful. I've been a lot of places in my life.

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Of all the boats that once used Rondout as home port, best known locally in their day were the "Mary Powell," the chain ferry "Riverside" or "Skillypot," and the tow boat "Norwich."
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It was an unlikely trio. The "Mary Powell" was known for her grace and speed and as a steamboat whose fame spread far beyond the boundaries of the Hudson River. The local renown of the "Skillypot" rested on the fact she was virtually the only way to get across Rondout Creek prior to the opening of the 9W highway bridge in 1921. The acclaim of the "Norwich" was due to her prowess as an ice breaker and her incredibly long life.

The "Norwich" was originally built in 1836 – only 29 years after Robert Fulton's first successful steamboat – to run as a passenger and freight carrier on Long Island Sound between New York and Norwich, Conn. She operated on that route for seven years and in 1843 came to the Hudson River to run between the thriving village of Rondout and New York.

In 1848 the "Norwich" was acquired by Thomas Cornell and he ran her for a season or two on her old route. Being rather small and slow compared to newer passenger boats, Cornell in 1850 converted her to a tow boat. She remained as such for the Cornell Steamboat Company until finally sold for scrap in 1923, at the ripe old age of 87.

The famous "Mary Powell" saw service during all or part of 57 seasons and was considered to be an exceptionally long-lived steamboat.

Yet the "Norwich" was in service for 25 years before the "Mary Powell" was built and was still running when the "Powell" turned her last paddle wheel. Indeed, the "Norwich" witnessed the first trips of the majority of steamboats to sail the Hudson and was still steaming on the river when they made their last trips.

As soon as the "Norwich" appeared on the Hudson, she gained a reputation as an ice breaker, even before she was converted to a towing steamer. On one occasion in 1845 she broke a channel through solid ice all the way from Kingston to Albany to break up an ice jam. For the rest of her days on the Hudson she was always known as a very good boat in the ice. For decades people all along the shores of the Hudson called her  the "Ice King."

When she was breaking ice, the "Norwich's" bow would ride up on the heavy ice and crush it with her weight. On occasion when she could not back off, the engineer would disconnect one paddle wheel from the other in an effort to free her. When that failed to get her off, the deckhands would roll large barrels of iron and stone from one side to the other and – by tipping her – her wind over-hanging guards would crack the ice, first on one side and then the other. When she was fully afloat, the "Norwich" would back up and smash into the solid ice again. Her hull was constructed especially for ice breaking and for many, many years the "Norwich" would be the first boat out in the spring and the last to lay up in the winter.

At different times the "Norwich" was called upon to pull steamboats that had run aground in the fog or heavy snow storms.

However, when she pulled a grounded steamboat, a propeller tug would always be in attendance; pushing her bow to hold her up against the tide, as a side wheeler has no rudder power until she gets underway.

When the Hudson-Fulton Celebration of 1909 was held, celebrating the 300th anniversary of the discovery of the river by Henry Hudson and the 100th anniversary of the development of the steamboat by Robert Fulton, the "Norwich" played a prominent part. Even then, she was the oldest steamboat still in service.

While being made ready for the celebration at the Cornell shops in Rondout, the "Norwich" somehow caught on fire and was nearly destroyed. Quick work by Cornell's men and the Kingston fire department saved her, although damage was severe. The fire occurred Aug. 30, 1909, only 25 days before the celebration's big marine parade was scheduled to take place in New York harbor.

It was thought that would end any part the "Norwich" might play in the event. S.D. Coykendall, however, had different ideas and the Cornell shops worked around the clock to get her ready. She appeared in the parade, all evidence of the disastrous fire removed, and on her paddle wheels housings – in addition to her name – proudly carried the legend "Oldest Steamboat in the  World. Built 1836."

The "Norwich" continued to sail the Hudson through 1919, mostly on the upper end of the river. Sometimes she would be in charge of tows and, at other times, helping more powerful boats like the "Oswego" or the tugboat "Pocahontas."

After propeller tugs grew in numbers, the "Norwich" was not used much as an ice breaker and gradually was utilized only as a spare boat during the season's rush.

In the early 1920's, the "Norwich" was tied up at Port Ewen at the "Mary Powell's" old winter berth where the Hidden Harbor Yacht Club is now located. Talk along the waterfront as to why the "Norwich" was not broken up was that the old work horse was a particular favorite of Mrs. S.D. Coykendall, daughter of Thomas Cornell, and that as long as she lived the Cornell Steamboat Company would keep her. The "Norwich" was one of the first vessels owned by Mrs. Coykendall's father and rumor was she considered the old steamer a symbol of the family's fortune.

In any event, shortly after Mrs. Coykendall's death, the "Norwich" was sold in November 1923 to Michael Tucker of Port Ewen and he proceeded to break her up. He put the old tow boat at high water high on the beach at the south of his property and the dismantling went on for several years.

About 1928, the celebrated automobile manufacturer Henry Ford came to Kingston. At that time, he was acquiring material for the museum he was setting up at Dearborn, Mich. He went to Port Ewen to see Michael Tucker and find out if he could buy parts of the "Norwich" for his museum.

Tucker told him he was a little late, but he had some things junk dealers and others hadn't bought yet. Ford acquired the towboat's two drive shafts, two stands that had been in the captain's room and one of her flag poles. Tucker tried to get Ford to buy one of her anchors, but for some reason he would not.

During his Kingston visit, Ford also went to see John Fischer who had broken up the "Mary Powell" at Connelly and acquired a few items from the old "Queen of the Hudson." It is my understanding most of these things never actually went on display at the museum. Ford had acquired a tremendous amount of material from all over the country and during World War II scrap drives many iron and steel items, probably including the drive shafts of the "Norwich," were recycled.

During her long life, the "Norwich" suffered her share of mishaps. Among the more serious, in addition to the fire of Aug. 30, 1909, were the breaking of her engine's cross head while coming up river with a tow on Nov. 30, 1882, a bad fire on Dec. 16, 1906, and at least two sinkings in Rondout Creek.

​Also because of her many, many years of service, the "Norwich" served as a sort of training ship for men who later became some of the best known boatmen on the river. Many a Hudson River captain, pilot and engineer started their steamboat careers on the "Norwich" – either as a deckhand or fireman. Over those long ago years, some of the better known Hudson River steamboat captains who had captained the old "Ice King" from Rondout were Jeremiah Patterson, George Gage, Stephen Van Wert, James Welch, Harry Barber, Jacob DuBois, Ira Cooper and, at the end, Rol Saulpaugh.

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM Contributing Scholar Carl Mayer. This article was originally published  December 19, 1976.

Capt. William O. Benson recalls the rough autumn run of 1926

Many years ago, before the Hudson River channel to Albany was deepened for ocean vessels and kept open all winter by the Coast Guard, rivermen marked time by the last tow of the season. For boatmen, the last December run was more or less the end of the year, and it was often fraught with problems. Like the last tow out of Albany in 1926:

That autumn of fifty years ago had weather to match this year's. November temperatures had been below normal and banks of fog, sometimes pea soup thick, rolled in every morning. Cold nights brought skim ice along the shores and froze over the coves along the upper Hudson.

In early December a date was announced for the last Cornell tow to leave Albany. In those days almost all the towing on the Hudson River was done by the Cornell Steamboat Company.
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As usual, some scows and barges in the Albany area were not completely unloaded by the deadline, and others at the brickyards at Coeymans were still being loaded with brick for the New York market.

The owners put up a howl because they didn't want their barges to miss the last tow. When that happened, the barges froze in for the winter and lots of money was lost. So the owners kept yelling until the tow steamed out of Albany – a day later than announced.

About 30 boats were in the tow – a diverse fleet of late canal barges, scrap iron scows, lighters, and dredges that had been working on the upper Hudson. The lead boat in charge was the big tug "Pocahontas", with the "George W. Pratt", "G.C. Adams", Empire" and "Geo. N. Southwick", assisting as helpers. All five had wooden hulls.

Just before the flotilla started down river, the snow began. Before long it was a blizzard, which went on all day and through the night, accompanied by a biting cold north wind. As the tow approached Van Wies Point, the pilots could barely see either bank.

Slush, or 'snow ice' was forming from shore to shore. And, as it did in those days, the slush that passed under the wooden scows and barges clung to their flat bottoms and kept building until it actually dragged on the bottom of the river in the shallow parts.

The next morning the tow was off Castleton, only about eight miles from where it had started, and barely moving. Captain Gus Gulligan of the "Pocahontas" sent Captain Ed Van Woert of the "Adams" into Castleton to telephone Cornell's New York office for help. When Captain Van Woert came back to the tow, he said the big tugs "Geo. W. Washburn" and "Edwin H.. Mead", together with the helper tubs "W.N. Bavier" and "Edwin Terry", were on their way up river to assist the tow to New York. All four of these tugs had steel or iron hulls.
The loaded scows from the brickyards at Coeymans were added to the tow. With the benefit of an ebb tide and the helper tugs to break a track in the snow ice ahead, the flotilla was able to move slowly downstream. But off New Baltimore, it came to a dead stop. The slush under the barges had hit bottom.

The second morning set in clear and cold with the river beginning to freeze solid. All the crews kept looking down river, trying o be the first to spot the heavy smoke over the hills in back of Kinderhook that would signal the approach of the "Washburn" or "Mead".

Towards noon the "Washburn" was spotted coming around Bronck's Island with a bone in her teeth, pushing the ice and the river ahead of her. When she took hold of the tow it began to move again and in a short while the "Mead" showed up. The smaller "Bavier" and "Terry" had to stop then at Rondout for coal and grub.

The tow was off Coxsackie when who walks out on the ice but Mr. Robert Oliver, Cornell's superintendent of operations. It didn't faze him a bit that there were cracks in the ice. Captain Frank McCabe of the "Empire" put his tug's bow against one of the cracks, and Mr. Oliver climbed up over her bow and was put aboard the "Washburn".

As the tow was nearing Hudson the four helpers that started out with the group in Albany were running out of coal. One by one they went into Hudson, where coal trucks came down to the dock to load them up.

Because of the deep drafts of the "Washburn" and "Mead", the tow had to progress from there down the deeper Hudson channel instead of the Athens channel.

By this time, the "Bavier' and the "Terry" were in tow, bringing the number of Cornell boats in the group to nine – more than the company floated during their final years of operation in the late 1950s.

After the tow cleared the Hudson channel, Mr. Oliver ordered the captains of all the wooden-hulled tugs to go to the end of the tow and start in the broken track. He was afraid they might break a hull plank in the ice and sink.

Off Percy's Reach, the steamer "Catskill" of the Catskill Evening Line, was seen lying fast in heavy ice. Mr. Oliver sent the "Bavier" and "Terry" ahead to break her out, which It didn't take them long to do. The "Catskill" headed right into Catskill Point to tie up for the winter.

By now, both the "Washburn" and the "Mead" were pulling on the tow while the "Bavier" and  "Terry" broke the ice ahead. The flotilla was perking along at about four miles an hour.
Down off Smith's Landing, the tug "Joan Flannery" was waiting for the Cornell tow to come down. She had three lighters loaded with cement for New York, and her captain knew he could never make it alone. As the Cornell Tow went by, Captain Jim Malia of the "Flannery" pulled in about 50 feet behind, following right in their track in the ice.

"Whoever is on the "Joan Flannery" must have worked in Cornell's at one time," Mr. Oliver told the "Washburn" Captain Jim Dee. And Dee replied: "Yeh, that's Jim Malia who used to be captain of the "Townsend" and the "Cornell."

After all the scows from the brickyards between Malden and Kingston were added to the tow, the flotilla had grown to 55 boats. But off Kingston Point, five of them said goodbye. The wooden hullers in the group made a bee line for the Cornell shops on Rondout Creek to lay up for the winter.

Once past Kingston, the only obstacle was floating ice. The passenger and freight steamers "Newburgh" and "Poughkeepsie" of the Central Hudson Line operated daily between Kingston and New York in those days and kept the ice pretty well broken up.
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The tugboat men of fifty years ago sure had their trials and tribulations. Captains and pilots were always worried about what the ice might do to their boats – and to the other scows and barges in the tow. But in that year, as in most, good judgement and a certain amount of luck prevailed. The boats brought the tow safely down the old Hudson, and, with it, the close of the season of 1926 on the upper river.

Editor's Note: This article originally appeared in the Hudson River Maritime Museum's 2018 issue of the Pilot Log.

A remarkable family of African American river men participated in the transition from working sail to steam during America’s Industrial Revolution. Sometimes referred to as the Black Schuylers, the family began with one or more sloops early in the nineteenth century and seized the opportunity to acquire steamboats early in the 1840s. The Schuyler Steam Tow Boat Line figured prominently in the operation of steam tows on the Hudson River and by 1888 reportedly employed eighteen boats in Albany in the towing of canal boats on the river. The family acquired real estate in Albany’s south end between Pearl Street and the river, traded grain and coal, issued stock, and invested in railroading. Their wealth placed them in Albany’s elite business and charitable circles and their esteemed status led to their burial in Albany’s prestigious Albany Rural Cemetery alongside Albany’s other business and political leaders. That so little is known of this family and its accomplishments may be more a reflection of their race than of their accomplishments. The family’s identity as Black, while not a barrier to their early success in business, may have played a discriminatory role in their lack of prominence in the historical record. Ironically, the lighter skin of later generations may also have played a role in their lack of visibility in more recent Black History scholarship. While incomplete, it is hoped that this account may spur further research into the life and contributions of this Hudson River family.  
 
​Until the second half of the nineteenth century, Albany’s commerce and financial opportunities were almost entirely dependent upon the city’s position at the head of ship navigation on the Hudson River. The river served as New York’s “Main Street” well into the nineteenth century and Albany was strategically situated near the confluence of the upper Hudson River and the Mohawk River. Although Albany received larger ships, much of the freight and passengers coming in or out of Albany before the 1807 advent of steamboats was carried by single and double-masted sloops and schooners of 100 tons capacity or less. These sailing vessels continued to carry freight into the fourth quarter of the nineteenth century, even as steamboats soon attracted much of the passenger business. Captain Samuel Schuyler, the progenitor of the Black Schuylers, began and sustained his career with these boats and raised his sons Thomas and Samuel on them.
 
Albany grew rapidly in the 1820s and 1830s as a direct result of the surge in freight handling brought about by the much heralded completion of the Champlain and Erie canals in 1823 and 1825 respectively. Both canals terminated in Albany. Freight moving east and south from Canada, Vermont, the Great Lakes region and the interior of New York was shipped on narrow, animal-towed canalboats with limited capacity. 15,000 such boats were unloaded at Albany in 1831. These cargoes needed to be stockpiled and transferred to larger sloops and schooners for trip to New York City and other Hudson River towns. Over time, steamboats became more efficient and reliable, especially after Livingston-Fulton monopoly on steamboats in New York was struck down by the Supreme Court in 1824. 

One innovation with implications for canal freight was steam towing which presented an economical alternative to “breaking-bulk,” the laborious process of unloading and transferring cargoes at canal terminals. Steam-powered sidewheel towboats appear to have been introduced on the Hudson River in the 1840s and could tow long strings of loaded canalboats directly to their destinations without unloading. Captain Schuyler’s sons capitalized on this concept and transitioned from carrying freight on sloops to towing rafts of canalboats and other craft behind powerful steamboats. They were at the right place at the right time and had the experience and extensive business connections to make the most of this innovation. 

Captain Samuel Schuyler (1781-1841 or 1842) was one of Albany’s first African American businessmen.  His origins in Albany are obscure but his surname suggests that he was enslaved by the Dutch-American Schuylers who were among Albany’s wealthiest and politically most prominent families. Philip Schuyler (1733-1804), known for his role in the American Revolution and early advocacy for canals, held slaves in Albany and at his other properties. Slavery was practiced extensively in Albany County until gradually abandoned in the early nineteenth century.

Albany County manumission records report that a slave named Sam purchased his freedom in 1804 for $200 from Derek Schuyler. It is possible, but by no means certain, that Sam is the same man later referred to as Captain Samuel Schuyler.  The fact that Samuel married in 1805 so soon after this date lends further credence to this possibility.  
          
Samuel Schuyler is described as a “Blackman” in the Albany tax roll of 1809 and a “skipper” and free person of color in the Albany directory of 1813. He was involved in the Hudson River sloop trade and owned property in the area of the waterfront which appears to have included docks and warehouses at the river and a home on South Pearl Street. He married “a mulatto woman” named Mary Martin or Morton (1780-1847 or 1848) and had eight or more children with her including Richard (1806-1835), Thomas (1811-1866) and Samuel (1813-1894). Richard was baptized in Albany’s Dutch church on North Pearl Street. Captain Schuyler came to own a flour and feed store as well as a coal yard at or near the waterfront. His sons joined the business which was known as Samuel Schuyler & Company in the 1830s.
 
The elder Captain Schuyler died in 1841 or 1842. After his burial, or perhaps after their mother’s burial in 1848, the younger Schuylers erected an imposing monument in the new Albany Rural Cemetery in Menands, established in 1844. The monument is a tapered, four-sided column resting on a plinth. It is significant that the column is engraved with a realistic bas relief anchor commemorating his sailing career and the three chain links denoting the fraternal organization Odd Fellows to which he apparently belonged. An inscription notes that the monument is dedicated to “OUR PARENTS.” That Schuyler and his family were accepted in a prominent location in the cemetery in spite of their African-American heritage is noteworthy because at the time the Albany Rural Cemetery had a separate section designated for African-American burials. ​

The younger Samuel Schuyler (1813-1894) and his brother Thomas (1811-1866) both began their careers in the sloop trade. Thomas began his career as a cabin boy in his father’s sloop and progressed in skill and responsibility. Samuel attended the old Beverwyck School in Albany and began his apprenticeship aboard the sloop Sarah Jane at age 12. He became the master of the sloop Favorite and later the Rip Van Winkle. He then purchased the Rip Van Winkle and together with his brother Thomas bought the sloops Anna Marie and Favorite. Samuel Schuyler married Margaret M. Bradford (1816-1881) and Thomas Schuyler married Ellen Bradford (1820-1900). The brothers appear to have bought their first steamboats, including the Belle, in 1845. The towboat enterprise was operating in the 1840s as the Schuyler Towboat Line and may have been incorporated in 1852. In that year the Schuylers financed and built the America, the powerful and iconic flagship of their fleet. Samuel became the company’s president and Thomas became the firm’s treasurer. Both men were active in Albany business and charitable circles serving as officers of bank, stock and insurance companies, trade organizations and charitable endeavors. Their business interests extended beyond towing as evidenced by a $10,000 investment in the West Shore Railroad built along the Hudson’s west shore through Newburgh, Kingston, Catskill and Albany. ​

​Schuyler’s towboat business clearly prospered. In 1848, Samuel bought a relatively new but modest brick house at the corner of Trinity Place and Ashgrove Place in Albany’s South End and greatly enlarged it. Among other changes, he added an imposing round and bracketed cupola at the roof, making the house one of the largest and most stylish in the neighborhood. The house still stands. Thomas appears to have been a driving force in financing and building a new Methodist-Episcopal church nearby at Trinity Place and Westerlo St. in 1863. The Albany Hospital and the Groesbeckville Mission also benefitted from his philanthropy. Thomas died in 1866 and was buried alongside his father beneath a Gothic-style tombstone. His brother Samuel published a tribute to his brother which memorialized his many contributions to the Albany community.

​Sources:
- Stefan Bielinski, The Colonial Albany Social History Project; The People of Colonial Albany, website hosted by the New York State Museum, exhibitions.nysm.nysed.gov
- Howell & Tenney, History of the County of Albany, W.W. Munsell & Co., New York 1886.
- Abbott, Reverend W. Penn, Life and Character of Capt. Thomas Schuyler, Charles Van Benthuysen & Sons, Albany, 1867.
- Albany County Hall of Records, Manumission Register.

Editor's Note: These are excerpts taken from pages 55-58 of "Canal Boatman: My Life on Upstate Waterways" by Richard Garrity, published by Syracuse University Press, 1977.

"Departing from Tonawanda in midsummer, with two boat loads of lumber consigned to the Steinway piano factory in Brooklyn, we made a trip over the Erie Canal and down the Hudson River to New York City that I recall with much pleasure.

It was 1909. I was six in August and was then old enough to be a wide-eyed and interested observer of everything, from the time we were put in the Hudson River tow at Albany, until we returned there eight days later.  The steersman had been laid off when we arrived at Albany. My Uncle Charles, mother's younger brother who was driving our mules that summer, was put in charge of the head boat. My father and mother, and my older brother Jim, myself, a younger sister, and a baby brother were on the second boat, the "Sol Goldsmith". Before the start of a tow down the Hudson it was necessary to assemble and make up the tow as the canal boats arrived at Albany. I was told by older boatmen that in the early days when canal shipping was very busy, the tows were made up on the Albany and Rensselaer side of the river, but in my day they were made up only on the Rensselaer side of the river below the bridges. This eliminated the risk of the large two striking the Albany-Rensselaer bridge piers when starting down the river. Nor did it interfere with the Albany harbor traffic while being assembled.

Once the tow was underway it was a period of relaxation for the boatmen. No steersmen were needed, since the tugs guided the boats. There would be no locks to pass through or time spent caring for animals as the teams were let out to pasture in the Albany vicinity until the boats returned from New York. Only the lines holding the boats together were to be inspected and kept tight. The boats would be kept pumped out, and that was it until the tow reached New York. This would take about 48 hours. Many of the boatmen did odd jobs, such as splicing lines, caulking, painting decks and cabin tops, and handling other small repair jobs. They also visited back and forth. I enjoyed going with Father when he visited other boatmen in tow, because I liked to hear them talk of other canal men they knew, and to hear them tell of things that had happened to them while going up and down the canal.
My first visit with him aboard a "Bum Boat" that came out to the two opposite Kingston was a very satisfying event, for I never expected to be eating fresh ice cream, purchased going down the middle of the Hudson River.

The Bum Boats sold – at regular retail prices to the boatmen – fresh meats, baked goods, eggs, soft drinks, candy, ice cream, and other such commodities. Coming alongside, it hooked onto our tow while the boatmen when aboard and bought what they wanted, including cold bottled beer.
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The small canopied Bum Boats were steam powered. They stayed alongside until we met another river tow going in the opposite direction. Leaving us, they tied onto the other two and returned to their starting point. They "bummed" a tow from a fleet going down the river and up the river; hence the name Bum Boat. 

When our tow arrived at New York I was amazed at the never-ending flow of harbor traffic. … After unloading the lumber for the Steinway piano factory in Brooklyn, we were towed to the canal piers on South Street at the foot of Manhattan Island. Here we waited a few days for orders from an agent who was to secure loads for our boats for the return trip to Tonawanda.

My brother Jim, who was almost two years older than I, was entrusted to take me sightseeing along the busy streets bordering the waterfront. We visited the nearby Fulton Street fish market, a very busy place, and strolled by the stalls amazing by all the different kinds of saltwater fish brought in by the fishing fleet. We walked back along bustling South Street, which was always a beehive of activity due to the arrival and departure of the many tugs, barges, and other kinds of vessel traffic.  Most of the business places along here catered to waterfront customers. In this area there were many push-carts selling all kinds of merchandise and food. We bought fresh oysters and clams on the half shell for a penny apiece. Hot dogs were a nickel (they were called Coney Island red hots), and many other items of ready-to-eat food and candy could be found at prices only to be had along the waterfront.

That evening we were told that two loads of fine white sea gravel consigned to the Ayrault Roofing Company in Tonawanda had been secured for the return trip west. Early the next morning, a small steam tug hooked on to our two empty boats and towed us up the East River, though through the Hell Gate. After a few hours' tow on Long Island Sound we arrived at Oyster Bay and were moored at the gravel dock, ready to load. Two days later we were back at the South Street piers waiting to be placed in the next westbound Hudson River tow."

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. This article was originally published ​ December 30, 1973.

Fog, that natural phenomenon so prevalent on the river in the fall and spring when the seasons change, has constantly been a problem to boatmen.  Obviously, there is always the danger of collision or grounding.

Today, the electronic marvel of radar has done much to lessen the danger of the boatmen’s old foe.  Prior to World War II, however, there was no radar.  Then, the boatmen had nothing to rely upon except their boat’s compass, the echo of their boat’s whistle off the river bank, and their own knowledge of the river with all its tricks of tide, wind and twisting-channels.  Few people on shore, unless they at one time had worked on the river, ever realized how extensive and uncanny this knowledge was. 

Years ago, probably the best men on the river in fog were the captains and pilots of the Cornell Steamboat Company’s big tugboats - the tugs that pulled the big tows of that era, sometimes with as many as 50 or 60 barges and scows in a tow.  They had to be good.  A steamboat pilot could almost always anchor.  But on the big tugs, when the fog would close in with the tide underfoot with a big tow strung out astern and no room to round up and head into the tide, they had no choice but to keep going.  

One time, back around 1930, there was a company in New York harbor that specialized in the towing of oil barges.  Their tugs would push oil barges up the Hudson River and through the New York Barge Canal to cities like Utica, Syracuse and Buffalo. 

One day one of their tugboats was pushing an oil barge up the river, destined for Buffalo, when off Tarrytown it began to get very foggy.  At the time they were overtaking a big Cornell tow in charge of the tug "J. C. Hartt.” As the fog was getting thicker, the captain of the small tug pushing the oil barge went up to the tail end of the Cornell tow and put a line from the oil barge on to the last barge in the ‘‘Hartt’s” tow.  He held on until the fog cleared up near Bear Mountain and then let go and went on his way. 

About two weeks later, when the canal tug and its oil barge got back to New York, the tug captain’s boss came down to the dock and said, “Cap, were you holding on a Cornell tow about two weeks ago?” The tug captain was sort of flustered and sputtered, "Why, why when?”

“Well,” replied the boss, “we've got a bill from Cornell here for $65 for towing from Tarrytown to Bear Mountain,” and he then mentioned the times and the date. 

The oil barge tug’s captain knew his boss had the goods on him, so all he could say was, “Yes, that’s right.  I was caught in fog off Tarrytown when they were going by.  And you know those Cornell men know the river in fog better than anybody.  I knew I'd be safe hanging on and sailing along with them. 

The boss said, “Well, I guess we'll have to pay it, but don't do it again.”

I am sure many other canal tugs did the same thing, some getting away with it and some not.  As they used to say along the river, the men on Cornell's steady pullers were the best compasses on the river. 

Now, those able boatmen, men like Ira Cooper, Al Hamilton, Ben Hoff, Sr., Jim Monahan, John Sheehan, Jim Dee, Albert Van Woert, John Cullen, Dan McDonald, Barney McGooey, Larry Gibbons, Howard Palmatier and a host of others, have long since steered their last tugboat through a fog.  And those big, powerful steady pullers, tugboats like the “J. C. Hartt,” “Geo. W. Washburn,” "John H. Cordts,” “Edwin H. Mead,” “Pocahontas,” “Osceola” and “Perseverance” have all towed their final flotilla of scows and barges.  Gone forever are the big tugboats with their red and yellow paneled deck houses and towering black smokestacks with their chrome yellow bases. 
​
The only thing that remains constant is the River with its changing tides.  And the fogs of spring and autumn.

​Very few persons who journey up and down the Hudson River either upon the palatial steamers or upon the railway trains that run along both banks of this great waterway know how great an amount of wealth is daily floated to this city on the canalboats and barges that compose the immense tows that daily leave West Troy, Lansingburg, Albany, Kingston, and other points along the river bound for this city. Twice each day-—early in the morning and in the evening—a large number of tows made up of boats that have come through the Erie Canal from Buffalo, the Northern Canal from points along Lake Champlain as far north as Rouse's Point, and through the Delaware and Hudson Canal from the anthracite coal regions of Lackawanna and Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, leave the above places in tow of huge side-wheel towboats and of puffing little screw propeller tugs, all moving toward one objective point, which is New-York City.

​Frequently these tows will be bunched together, so that, within a distance of three or four miles on the river, there can be seen several hundred barges and canalboats afloat carrying in their holds hundreds of thousands of dollars in merchandise, produce, lumber, grain, and ore. Many of these single tows contain as much as 100 boats, and sometimes a larger number, marshaled six and eight abreast, and reaching back at least a quarter of a mile from the stern of the leaders to the sterns of the last boats. Few persons would believe it, if told that enough freight was carried in a single tow of this kind to load a couple of dozen large trains of freight cars; yet such in the case.

During the past week several such tows have arrived from Albany in tow of the powerful tugs of the Schuyler Steam Towboat Line of 15 South-street. Their largest steamer, the huge side-wheeler Vanderbilt, only a few days ago brought down from Albany 120 grain barges, each barge carrying from 8,000 to 10,000 bushels of grain, weighing 240 tons, with a gross tonnage for the entire tow of nearly 40,000 tons. On Tuesday last one of their smaller boats, the Belle, Capt. John Oliver, assisted by the propeller James T. Easton, brought seventy-four boats from Albany and Troy, many of them laden with iron ore from Lake Champlain, while the others were loaded with grain and lumber and lying so low in the water that much of the time they were partially submerged. The gross tonnage of this tow was over 25,000 tons.
​
In taking a trip from this city to Albany, frequently as many as fifty of these tows are passed, it taking about thirty-six or forty hours for them to reach port at this city after leaving Albany. From Kingston, which is the tide-water outlet of the Delaware and Hudson Canal, another class of merchandise is shipped in the same manner. From the mouth of the Rondout Creek, which forms the harbor of the thriving and busy city of Kingston, can be seen emerging every evening huge rafts of canalboats, tall-masted down-Easters, and barges of various sorts, laden with coal, ice, hay, lumber, lime, cement, bluestone, brick, and country produce. Many of these craft have received their cargoes at the wharves of Kingston, while others have come from the coal regions about Honesdale and Scranton, in Pennsylvania, all bound for this port and consigned to, perhaps, as many different persons as there are boats in the tow.

Of the heaviest part of the traffic of the entire river at least two-thirds is monopolized by the two great towing companies, the Cornell Transportation Company of Kingston and the Schuyler Steam Towboat Line of Albany. The Schuyler Company practically has a monopoly of the trade coming from the Erie and Champlain Canals at Albany and Troy, as well as the towing for the Pennsylvania Coal Company from Newburg, while the Cornells hold in a tight grasp the business of the Delaware and Hudson Canal Company from Kingston, both north and south, on the river. The business of the Knickerbocker and other ice companies, which is something immense in volume, is scattered about among individual towboat owners, the two companies spoken of above, and several smaller towing lines.
On the arrival of the tows that come from various points up the river at this port a complete transformation takes place from the sleepy quiet that has reigned on the boats while slowly, but steadily, on their way creeping down the river. As soon as a large tow is sighted far up the river, a number of tugs belonging to the various towing lines in the harbor start with a full head of steam and race with each other to reach the tow. Each tug carries orders from the consignee of some particular boat to take it from the tow and place it in some selected berth. The boats to be dropped first from the tow are always placed on the outside or on the tail end, and as soon as the tugs reach them they begin to cast off and the tow begins to break up. They are then picked up by the tugs sent for them and taken to their several destinations.

The boats from the Albany tows, laden with flour and grain, are mostly taken to the piers along the East River from Pier 3 to Coenties-slip, the Erie and Atlantic Basins, and the elevator docks at Dow’s stores in Brooklyn. The boats laden with lumber, brick, cement, lime, building material, and bluestone from Kingston and other points are docked at the brick, stone, and lumber yards along the North and East Rivers, the coal barges go to Weehawken and Perth Amboy, and the ice barges to various stations along the North and East Rivers.
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Among the famous towboats plying between this city and up-river points are the America, Anna, Belle, Cayuga, Connecticut, Niagara, Ontario, Syracuse, Vanderbilt, Oswego, Mount Washington, Austin, Sammy Cornell, James T. Easton, the famous old ice king the Norwich, and many others. Many of these boats have labored upon this great waterway for at least thirty years, and some of them for a longer period. They have earned fortunes for their owners, and have also furnished employment for a huge army of men whose lives have been spent on the river and whose occupation promises to descend to their children in turn. The wealth that has been transported to this city in tow of this fleet of steam vessels is incalculable, and probably far exceeds if not doubles that of any other waterway in the world.

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer.  This article was originally published ​ July 8, 1973.

Since railroad trains have been operating along the east shore of the Hudson River for virtually its entire length between New York and Albany since 1851 and along the west shore of the river from Haverstraw to a point below West Park since 1883, Hudson River boatmen have had plenty of opportunity to observe the changes that have taken place over the years in railroading. 

One big change, of course, was the disappearance of the steam locomotive and its replacement by perhaps the more efficient but much less colorful diesel engine.  I well remember the end of steam locomotives on the old West Shore Railroad. 

Late April 1953 marked the end of passenger trains on the West Shore pulled by the previously reliable iron horse.  The morning of the last stem [sic] runs, shortly after sun-up, I was on the tugboat “Callanan No. 1" bound north with a tow.  We were just south of Crum Elbow, in close along the west bank of the river to get out of the tide.  Along came what we used to call the "paper train," the passenger train out of Weehawken with the New York newspapers for the communities all along the river. 

It was a cool April morning with a north east wind and the sun shining very bright out of the east.  As the train was going up the West Park hill, black soft coal smoke was pouring out of the locomotive’s stack.  I knew it marked the end of an era:

As the train pulled abreast of us, I blew a one long, one short blast on the whistle which the locomotive engineer answered.  Then I blew the traditional three long whistles of farewell. 
I can still see in memory of the three white plumes of steam from the train’s whistle as the engineer answered. 

As the train charged up the incline and out of sight, the wheels of the locomotive pounding, and black smoke and steam belching from the short, stubby, stack, I was reminded of the words of an almost forgotten poem of old, “Pulling up along the track, with the choo choo of the stack, how I love to watch the local as it comes along the track; Pulling up along the track, with the choo choo of the stack, up, up along the lonely track.”

Another change in railroading caused by the passing years, was the disappearance of the track walkers.  For many, many years, the railroad used to employ men to make regular foot patrols of their trackage, especially in the vicinity of rock cuts along the river’s shore.  It was their job to watch for fallen rocks and to make regular inspections of the rights of way. 
For years, boatmen at night would see the track walkers on their lonely patrols carrying a lantern and later with a good flashlight.  This was especially true in the Hudson Highlands from Stony Point to Cornwall where there were extensive rock cuts. 

In the lonely morning hours around 2 or 3 a.m., when seeing a track walker, I would always turn our searchlight on and blink it or raise it up and down.  In return, they would waive their lanterns back to us.  It was a friendly greeting at that hour.  I used to think that it must have been very lonely for them walking along those tracks in the dark. 

A train would come roaring along if a passenger train or rumbling along if a freight, making a great deal of noise, and then it would be all peace and quiet again.  You would see the track walkers going into their little flag shanties along the tracks to get warm and then go out again in another hour for another patrol. 

During the middle 1950’s there was a big stock proxy contest for control of the New York Central Railroad.  A group, headed by Robert R. Young, won control and shortly after that the new management made a lot of changes in the operation of the company.  One of the changes was to do away with the jobs of the track walkers.  After that, no more did boatmen see their friendly lanterns moving back and forth as the track walkers walked their solitary way in the night looking for broken rails, loose spikes or rock slides. 

Before the days of radar on tugboats, when the boats were running in fog, the track walkers were a blessing to the boatmen.  Sometimes we would be running pretty close to shore and see dimly the friendly light of their lantern.  They probably over the years, unbeknown[st] to them, saved many a steamboat or tugboat from running on the shore or rocks. 

On other change is the demise of the hoboes or knights of the road.  Either our affluent society has done away with the hobo or, if there are any left, they must have all taken to the highways. 

Back during the Great Depression of the 1930’s, when on the tugboats we would be bucking the tide with a large tow, we would get close to shore so the tide wouldn’t have such an effect on our tows.  Then, when a freight train of 90 or 100 cars would come along we would try and see how many knights of the road we could count.  Sometimes there would be as many as several dozen.  Times change.  Today, when the freight trains go by one never sees anyone riding the rails. 
​
Also, in those depression years, boatmen would see the fires of hoboes burning along the rails or in culverts under the tracks.  If a box car were standing along the tracks on some isolated siding and if we threw our searchlight beam on it, you would frequently see someone slip out the other side or come to the half closed door and peek out. 
Like the seasons and the tides of the river, things along the Hudson are continually changing.  Hopefully, the hoboes of yesteryear have all found the destination they were seeking and surroundings more hospitable than that formerly provided by the "water level route” of wooden ties and steel rails.

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. This article was originally published January 23, 1977.

Tugboats in some respects are like people. Some have long lives, some short ones. Some during the course of their lifetime change greatly in appearance. And some seem to be more accident prone than others.

All tugboats, especially in the old days, had their share of mishaps, which were caused by any number of things. River traffic was greater then, and there were fewer buoys, beacons and other navigational aids. It was a time of no radar, which today permits the pilot to “see” where he is in the fog, blinding snow or rain storm. In addition, of course, there were and are always those mishaps caused by human error or folly.

The debacles that befell the tugboat “Hercules” of the old Cornell Steamboat Company are perhaps typical. Some of the incidents were not without a touch of humor. Others have a bit of pathos.

The “Hercules” — a good name for a tug — was a member of the Cornell fleet during its heyday. She was built in 1876 and remained in active service until 1931. "Herk," as they often called her, was smaller than the large tugboats that used to pull the big flotillas of barges, but also larger that the helper tugs that regularly assisted every big tow. As a result, she was used for a lot of special tasks: towing dredges, expressing special barges or lighters, pulling steamboats from winter lay up to a shipyard, etc.

"Herk" also had a reputation as an ice breaker and was used often for this purpose - particularly in the spring. To help her in the ice, she had extra stout oak planking and steel straps all around her bow.

One day in the summer of 1917, the "Hercules" was running light to Rondout. Her pilot was off watch, asleep in his bunk, and the captain was dog tired. Since it was a clear summer’s day, the captain decided to grab a nap and let the deckhand steer.

After he went below for his nap, a heavy thunder shower came up off Esopus Meadows lighthouse. The decky altered course, and — thinking he was on the proper heading — kept her hooked up.

A few minutes later, "Herk" came to a slow stop and raised partly out of the water. When she listed, the captain woke up and ran to the pilot house. But the heavy rain was coming down in sheets. He couldn’t see a thing. All he knew for sure was that his tug was aground and the tide was falling.

When the rain stopped a few hours later, the problem was obvious. The deckhand had turned too much towards the northwest, going aground directly off the old Schleede’s brickyard at Ulster Park. The “Hercules” had plowed right over the Esopus Meadows, coming to rest with her bow on the north bank and her stern on the south bank, straddling the cut channel between the Meadows and the brickyard.

The tide was ebbing and, unsupported as she was in the middle, her crew was afraid the Herk would either break her back or roll over on her side. But as the water fell, she listed only a trifle and sat there— just as she had run aground. “Herk" must have been made of good stuff to stand that ordeal.

The next high tide, Cornell sent down the tugs “Harry", “G. C. Adams” and “Wm. S. Earl” and pulled her off, none the worse for the experience. The deckhand who put her there lived in Port Ewen. For years afterward, he took a lot of ribbing for trying to put his tug up in his own backyard.

Two years later — in 1919 — the “Hercules" had another mishap. For this one, her pilot was fired.

At that time, "Herk" was expressing a coal boat from New York to Cornwall. She was off
Jones Point at about 1:30 in the morning, when the pilot, who used to so some fishing, said to the deckhand, “Steer her a little while. I’m going down to the galley and knit on my fish nets.”

While the pilot knitted, the decky dozed off at the wheel, and the “Hercules” hit a rock near Fort Montgomery. It put a sizable hole in her hull, she sank in 45 feet of water.
The salvage company later located her by her hawser, which was still attached to the coal boat, and floated her like a big buoy. “Herk” was raised and repaired, and she ran for another 12 years.

After the accident, the president of the Cornell Steamboat Company is said to have called the pilot into his office to ask him how it happened. The pilot was truthful, telling him where he was and what he'd been doing, whereupon Cornell’s president is supposed to have said: “Well,”(calling the pilot by name),"now you can go home for the rest of your life and knit nets to your heart’s content." And he never worked on a Cornell tugboat again.

In 1924, the “Hercules" had another near accident— but this one ended on a happier note. The tug was running light in the upper river on her way to Albany. It was the era before three crews manned each boat, and the captain was off for the weekend. Peter Tucker, the pilot, was in charge and standing a double watch.

At the time, it was early morning and breakfast was ready. The cook claimed he had a Hudson River pilot’s license and came up to the pilot house saying, "Now Pete, go down and enjoy your bacon and eggs. I'll steer for you.”

Pete said, “‘Are you sure you know the channel?", to which the cook replied, "Yes, yes I know all about it."  So pilot Tucker went down to the galley to have his oatmeal, bacon and eggs.
At that point, "Herk” was off the Stuyvesant upper lighthouse. A little while later, she was at the junction of the Hudson and Schodack Creek. Given a choice, the poor cook thought he was to go up the shallow Schodack, instead of west and up the Hudson.

Ned Bishop, the chief engineer, came out of the galley just in time to see where they were heading. Yelling to pilot Tucker, he said, “Pete, where is this guy going?"

The pilot looked out of the galley, and there they were, headed up Schodack Creek. Pete started to run up the forward stairway to the pilot house, hollering to Ned Bishop as he ran, "Full speed astern!" The chief reversed the throttle just in time. The "Hercules" slid up on the bank and right off again. If he hadn’t been so quick, "Herk" would probably be there yet.

Going into the pilot house, Pete said to the cook, “I thought you knew the river." The cook (rather sheepishly) replied, "Well, that’s the way I always went.”  The pilot retorted, "What’s the use?  Go down and start dinner. Now!”

And so ended another incident of the many in the long life of the "Hercules."

The story I’m about to relate happened 45 years ago almost to the day. The incident dates back to Dec. 4, 1926 - which would make yesterday its anniversary for those who might remember.
           
In any event, when steamboating was at its peak on the Hudson River, every city and almost every village along the majestic river had a steamboat landing and was served by one or more steamboats.
           
The bigger cities and villages had direct service to New York, while the smaller villages were served by smaller connecting steamboats.

Newburgh Albany Line
And the Central Hudson Line, which operated primarily between Rondout, Poughkeepsie and Newburgh - with way landings - to New York, also operated a line between Newburgh and Albany.
           
Originally, there were two steamboats in this service, one each day in each direction, carrying freight and passengers between some 20 different landings. In its latter and declining days, the service was down to one lone steamboat - the “Jacob H. Tremper” - carrying freight only.
           
This, then, was the background for the following incident which was told to me by Jack Dearstyne Sr., the “Tremper’s” last captain.
           
It was Dec. 4, 1926 and a heavy snow storm had already set in when Capt. Dearstyne got orders at Albany to start for Newburgh where he was to lay up for the winter. As the “Tremper” made its way down the river, thick snow pelted its deck, hitting harder and harder with each mile navigated.

Two Passed By
Off Coxsackie, the crew of the “Tremper” could barely discern the outlines of the “Osceola” and the “G.C. Adams” of the Cornell Steamboat Company.  But the men of the “Tremper” knew they were indeed passing both boats as they headed slowly up river with a large tow.
           
As the “Tremper” passed Four Mile Point, four miles above Athens, the chief Engineer and the captain stood together in the pilot house…and both strained to see through the snow just as everybody else aboard was attempting to do. They all figured that if they could make Rondout, they would tie up for the night.
           
Suddenly the chief observed, “That looked like the junction buoy.” And they all agreed that it was. Said Captain Dearstyne to the pilot, “Better pull to the west,” and the maneuver was promptly executed by the pilot.
           
​But it had not been the buoy that had been spotted. Instead, the “buoy” turned out to be a large log floating in the river. And before they could back down, the “Tremper” slid up on west flat, just north of the light. Unfortunately for the boat, the time of the accident was near the end of the flood tide.

None Heard Whistle
They backed and backed and backed again - blowing the whistle - thinking and hoping that one of the tug boats they had recently passed might hear them. But neither did. From Captain Jack came this lament; “I guess this is the end of the old ‘Tremper’.”
           
But, then, just as they were about to give up all hope, they heard the muffled sound of another steamboat whistle through the swirling snow. And out of the whiteness of the storm came William H. Burlingham with the steamer “Catskill,” the freight boat of the old Catskill Evening Line.
           
It seemed that Captain Burlingham had been tied up at Stockport because of the storm. Coming to the rescue, the “Catskill” came up astern, put a hawser on the “Tremper” and pulled again and again.
           
With each pull by the “Catskill,” the “Tremper” also helped by working her engine back hard and, in the process, the “Catskill” parted several hawsers.
           
No amount of pulling seemed to help and, finally, Captain Jack yelled over to Captain Will on the “Catskill,” “I guess it’s no use. The tide is falling and her old deck planks and butts are opening up. It’s the last of the ‘Tremper.’”

A Final Try
 But Captain Will came right back with a “Let’s try once more.” Not willing to admit defeat, he had a further philosophic thought. “Both of us are getting old and so is the ‘Tremper.’ We can’t let her go without one more try.”
           
So try they did - and off she came!
           
The “Tremper” then continued on to Rondout and lay in for the night. The next day she followed the Rondout-New York boat, the “Poughkeepsie,” down the river as far as Milton, where the new ice was not so thick as it had been above. She then continued on to Newburgh where she layed up for the winter of 1926-27, and lived on to run for two more years.
           
​Captain Dearstyne was captain of the tugboat “Lion” in 1931 and I was his deckhand. And I remember him telling me then: “Always treat Will Burlingham as a gentleman as that is what he always was and always will be.”